You contemplate continuing the rest of the walk, allowing the foals’ cans to chill slightly and add a bit of discomfort, but you’re far too excited to edge yourself like that. Instead, you beeline back to your small, one story home.
Your outdoor clothing discarded and forgotten, you carry the two cans to the aforementioned safe room, flicking on the lights and setting them on a nearby counter. After another quick glance over the two to make sure they were still alive, you turn on your heel and attempt to tidy up the place.
You pick up the food and water dishes for cleaning, stepping away from the safe room to put the dishes by the sink. The foals wouldn’t need them for a while, but at least were out of the way to prevent them from hurting themselves.
With a soft hum, you decide to break out the baby pen and set it in the middle of the floor-- smaller and easier managed for the foals. You add a water dish or a litterbox, both shallow enough to prevent death then you lay down a waterproof pad from the closet ( this wasn’t your first rodeo ) and cover it with some blankets. With a nod, you return to your new guests.
A manicured nail taps at the glass of the colt, rousing him from his apparent sleep. A peep escapes him and you watch as a tiny bit of shit is sucked out of him and into the back container. It takes the foal a minute to open his eyes and search for the source, but once your face comes into view his cobalt tail begins to wag. “Nyu mummah?” he says to you, and you give a big smile.
“That’s right, I’m your new mommy. Now, let’s get you out of there, huh?” You move away from a moment, noting the desperate chirps as if you had left forever, only to return with another pee pad. You place it on the counter then reach out and turn the bottom of the container where the shit is stored. There’s a soft release of air and slowly the cap pulls away, taking the foal with it as he’s still attached.
“Now, this may hurt just a little, but mommy has to get this meanie tube out of your poopie-place, okay?” you ask softly. The foal shivers at the inclination of pain, chirping pathetically but inevitably nodding.
With the most delicate of holds, you grip the foal in one hand and the tube between your thumb and forefinger with the other hand and slowly pull the two apart. There’s frantic chirping and whimpering, and a bit of shit plops down onto the pad. You wrinkle your nose in disgust, though you at least had the forethought to prep the area.
Your attention returns to the shivering sack of flesh in your hand, the colt now suckling a hoof as if the most traumatic thing in the world had just happened. With a faux sweetness, you gingerly scratch his chin and head until the whimpering dies down.
“What a brave boy you are!” you coo, earning a happy peep from the little fluffy.
“Weawwy??” he asks, blue eyes staring up excitedly. You nod your head, a few more scratches following suit.
“Yes, you’re like a little knight in shining armor-- Oh! How about i name you Steel?” you chime, earning another joyous chirp in response.
“Steew wub nyu namiesies!! Wub ou mummah!” he praises, nuzzling against your thumb as his hoof is now forgotten.
By now, the other foal has woken up and is searching for where all the commotion is coming from. She spies the two of you and taps against the glass meekly. “Nyu mummah?” she echos the former, attempting to scratch at the interior of the tube. “Pwease wet babbeh out?” she continues, golden eyes as big as the moon.
Steel has yet to notice the noise, far too excited about his new mother and name. You give her a look, opting to ignore her presence as you move the colt to the new nest.
“There you are, a pen all to yourself!” you gleam, another cacophony of excited peeps filling the room. “Now, you stay here and get some sleep. It’s very late and good fluffies need their sleep.” There’s a frown and a few mild whimpers at the thought of having to sleep and not explore, but eventually exhaustion overcomes him and he curls up into a little silver ball.
Once you’re sure Steel is asleep, you turn your attention back to the filly on the counter. Your brows furrow as you stare at her, still attempting to escape her holding cell. She notices you again and excitement fills her tiny being. “Mummah wet babbeh out pwease?” she begs once again as you approach.
“You know, it’s very rude to interrupt someone’s conversation.” you say, noting the confused expression. “Wah…?”
“I was talking to the other fluffy and you interrupted me. That’s very very bad,” you continue, watching the distress settle in.
“B-babbeh nu mean to be bad, onwy wan hewp out of tubey fingy…” she whimpers at your gaze, having nowhere to run.
“I SUPPOSE I can forgive you this time, since you didn’t know-- but if you ever interrupt me again you’ll be in BIG trouble,” you threaten, staring down at her to make sure the words sink in. She gives a frantic nod, beginning to paw at the glass once more.
With a roll of your eyes, you reach out and snatch the tube, less gentle than before and move to hover it over the pad. With a quick turn of the cap, you give the bottle a shake and watch the foal fall from it and land with a thud onto the pee pad. She begins to chirp in surprise and fear, babbling about “poopie pwace huwties”, but you offer her no condolences. Instead, you grab the filly and hold her up once more, grip slightly tight on her frail little body as you move and quickly tug the tube from her ass. Not hard enough to cause damage as you prefer not to prolapse the little foal before you even get started, but hard enough that it’ll definitely sting. Once again, she dropped to the counter unceremoniously.
“There, happy?” you huff as if the whole thing was utterly exhausting.
It takes a moment for the filly to stop sobbing, eventually reduced to sniffles and a small nod.
“I just worked so hard to let you out and you’re not even going to THANK me?” you jab, hands now firm against your hips. “That’s very RUDE.”
The filly recognizes the word and, wanting to avoid any more hurties, wobbles to her feet and gives you a big, albeit forced, smile. “F-Fank ou mummah,” she manages meekly.
“Good.” and with that, you move back to the closet and dig out an old box-- some fluffy toy probably came in-- and bring it to the counter. You slap a pee pad inside, and shove it back against the wall. Then, you grip the filly-- ignoring the “bad upsies”-- by the scruff of her neck and drop her inside. “This is your nestie,” you state curtly. You pause for a moment, looking over the frail and shaking foal. “I should probably name you-- I guess i’ll keep with theme. Your name is Copper, now go to sleep.”
And with that, you flip the light off and exit the room.